


you don't have to say i love you (to say i love you)

by alecbaenes



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Date Night, M/M, Movie Nights, also some stuff about peter's parents being divorced and his dad being lame, i'll tag other characters and stuff as i post but, sam and peter are dating but you get to see flashbacks of the start of their relationship too, set in junior year, some making out/implied stuff, some morning show shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-09-27 10:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17160245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alecbaenes/pseuds/alecbaenes
Summary: Sam can say, ‘I love you’ to Peter, and vice versa, and it’ll mean something-- just not exactly what Sam wants to convey.---Or: The one where Sam realizes he's In Love with Peter, but fails to pick up on all the ways Peter says he loves him too without really saying it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alright my gremlin brain told me to post the first part of this oneshot (which.... ig is not a oneshot anymore ergrg) today bc i've been working on this so long and i want to give a little christmas present so. here you go!  
> title is from 'for him.' by troye sivan, ty gay icon! [i also have a little playlist for this if you want to listen](https://open.spotify.com/user/acidelectra/playlist/2BKXD9k2XsP5BtKE4D41UP?si=pPaR5D-qTtyV0qOYa94bKA). also, also, the latter part of this section was very inspired by wolfcat by still woozy which i would recommend listening to just in general.  
> also there is spaghetti sandwich discourse ahead so proceed with caution.

Fearless. That’s how Sam started to feel once _American Vandal_ was finished and out in the world. He’s not sure if it’s a healthy amount of confidence brought on by its success, or if the praise stroked his ego too much. That if Peter wasn’t his best friend the film fanatic would lump him in with the other ‘self-absorbed celebrities obsessed with instant gratification’. (Like Alex Trimboli, who was generally viewed as a ‘lil bitch’ by most viewers but milked his fifteen minutes of fame until it was spoiled). The thought crosses his mind occasionally, but Sam knows he’s not letting fame get to his head, other than having some more money to spend and joking that he’s some teen heartthrob now.

Really, it’s just confidence that needed a catalyst as crazy as a docuseries about dicks to unearth itself. It’s the unabashed acceptance of himself that used to only come out onstage during plays or even rattling off the morning announcements. The courage that would burst from his chest in the middle of the case, Peter by his side with a camera as he did something stupid, but important to finding the truth. It’s those moments where he’s really Sam Ecklund.

Part of his revelation came to him when Peter was showing him his final cut for the last episode. They were exhausted, Peter because he had been editing all night, and Sam because Peter called him at three in the morning to come over and watch it. He wanted to tell Peter to wait until later in the morning to show him, but they had both worked _so_ hard on _Vandal_. It being done was scary and exciting all at once, and he wanted to share that moment with Peter, even if that meant he had to steal his little sister’s scooter to get to the Maldonado residence in a timely manner.

Peter had paced in front of Sam as he watched, and when Sam told him that was way too distracting, he settled beside Sam on his bed, biting at his nails and shaking his foot. He’s biased, but Sam didn’t get why Peter was so nervous about it—he understood the pressure, of course, especially since _American Vandal_ had started to go viral. But Peter’s so fucking amazing at all of this to the point that Sam’s sort of pissed off Peter didn’t think it’s good enough.

He can feel Peter’s eyes flitting between the laptop screen and Sam’s face constantly, but then Sam’s breath hitched as he listened to the monologue, and Peter smiled. Small, but proud. And he should be. As always, Peter had a way with understanding people at their very core, even if he was a bit socially awkward. It feels like every word resonates deep within Sam’s soul.

The way their peers viewed Sam was different than how they saw Dylan, but the message was still applicable. People were always going to have this preconceived notion about Sam. He hated that. They didn’t really know who he was, the way Peter or Gabi did. If they didn’t give a fuck about who Sam _really_ was, why did he give so much of a fuck about what everyone thought of _him_?

So, it might not have been the exact point of the message Peter was trying to get across, but after celebratory root beer floats with Peter, Gabi, and Dylan the next evening, Sam decided to stop giving a fuck. He trekked to Brandon Galloway’s house and told him off for being such an arrogant asshole.

It happened in smaller ways too. He went to a few more parties, though they still weren’t as amazing as everyone said they were. That might’ve been because Peter wasn’t there to make fun of everything with him, but he also found out hangovers were fucking awful and not worth it. Or, instead of triple-checking his Spotify was on a private session before he played sickeningly sweet pop songs, Sam blasted them with pride.

The night before they left Camp Miniwaka, Sam and Gabi sat on the docks, away from prying eyes, and he told her that he was bi. He was sort of crying when he said it, and Gabi’s a sympathetic crier, so she started tearing up and wrapped him up in one of her fierce hugs. To his surprise, Gabi told him she was bisexual too. It was this weird emotional mess of them crying and laughing about how bad both of their gaydar was, and how they were afraid to tell the other. Really, Sam had been afraid to admit it to himself for a while. He felt stupid for waiting so long, because now Gabi was going to college in New York in just a few weeks, and they could’ve been talking about all shit they had to deal with or sending each other dumb memes.

She asked him if he’d told Peter yet, with that annoying knowing face she always had. Of course he hadn’t. Yeah, Sam was starting to feel fearless, but finding the courage to tell Peter he liked him took him most of the summer.

           

He had Peter (illegally, because Peter only had his permit) drive them to one of the old lighthouses in Oceanside to watch the sunset and confessed everything. That he thought Peter was the best thing that’s ever happened to him. That he was smart, creative, and deceptively cute. (Like yeah, his glasses made him look like some depressed, middle aged man bound to a cubicle, but his hazel eyes were fucking gorgeous, like _unfairly_ so-- and hello, _eyelashes!!!_ ) How he knew Peter wasn’t a sap but Sam kind of thought they’re soulmates because they just _understand_ each other so well, and Sam felt so much lighter when they’re together. That Sam _liked_ him.

And all the courage he mustered melted away when Peter’s brows furrowed, and he responded, “I mean, thanks Sam. That’s really sweet. But I mean-- I don’t know why you told me all of this. I’d already assumed you liked me.”

“ _What_?”

Had he been that fucking obvious the whole time?

“Well, you’re supposed to like your best friend.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, because _ho-ly shit_ could Peter Maldonado be a dense motherfucker. This probably would’ve been the part where Sam had a meltdown and ran away, they wouldn’t talk for like two weeks, and Sam would just have to live with his crush forever. But Sam was fearless now, even if that meant doing something stupid.

“I mean I _like_ you, idiot. Full homo,” Sam clarified, and instantly regretted the words as they came out.

Peter blinked in surprise, “Oh, so you’re like… Gay?”

“Well, bi, but… I like you, in the romantical way and shit.”

Fuck, his confession had been eloquent, written down (then rewritten like, seven times) and rehearsed for a week. This would’ve sounded better if Peter had just understood the first time around.

“Oh. Cool.”

 “ _Cool?_ That’s all you have to say?” Sam scoffed and walked towards the car, “Let’s just fucking go back.”

“No!” Peter blurted out, and started towards him, “I like you romantical too. I mean, romantically. Full homo reciprocated.”

Sam grinned, “So… you’d be interested in going out with me? In a full homo way?”

“I think we need to stop saying full homo,” Peter quipped, a small smile spreading across his face, “But, yeah. I’d really like that.”

           

They hadn’t kissed that day, though Peter held Sam’s hand over the console the whole drive back, which was pretty big considering he was a stickler for the ten-and-two rule. No, Peter had waited until he was dropping off Sam after their first date (at the movies, _duh_ ), to kiss him.

The two of them had stood on his front porch awkwardly, before Peter cupped Sam’s face with his hands and pulled him in, soft and sweet. Sam had been expecting fireworks, like that one episode of _Ned’s Declassified_ , or their lips to fit perfectly, or something full of passion like those trashy romance novels his mom reads. None of that happened, but it was nice. Really nice. They’d never kissed before, but it felt familiar, like coming home after being gone away at camp, everything the way you left it. A nice warm shower after being caught in the rain. Curling up into bed after a long, stressful day. How Sam always felt around Peter.

Peter broke the kiss and smiled at him before looking over Sam’s shoulder.

“Uh. I’m pretty sure your sisters just watched us kiss.”

Sam turned around just in time to see the curtains rustle as they hid from their viewing spot.

He shrugged, “I’ll yell at them later. I’m busy right now.” And kissed Peter again.

           

That was months ago now, and though they’ve gotten better at understanding each other in this new dynamic, Sam quickly realized that they approach relationships differently. It’s not a _bad_ thing, but they’re just different.

Like, how with his newfound fearlessness, Sam wanted to parade Peter down the halls and kiss him at their lockers, but Peter hates PDA. He’s private, wanting their moments to be intimate and not for anyone else.

At first that kinda stung, and Sam wasn’t sure if Peter was ashamed of him, even though he knew deep down Peter wasn’t. They get into a stupid fight about it anyways, but Peter explained that he doesn’t care if people find out, he just doesn’t want to announce it, or be one of those obnoxious couples. Sam sort of gets it then, shuddering at the thought of their peers sticking their tongue down each other’s throats and blocking the door when he’s trying to get into his classroom. 

Besides, it’s sweet that Peter wants every moment to be special. They make a compromise to hold hands, and Sam kisses his cheek instead of giving into the urge to make out with him in the halls.

It’s not like Peter is never compelled to do the same either—they’re teenage boys. But he’ll usually just drag him into the AV room during lunch, and Sam will grin and perch himself on those small wobbly desks, legs usually in the weirdest possible position because he’s gay and can’t sit properly. But Peter always finds a way to get close, close enough that Sam can feel the rapid beating of his heart against his own chest, full of adrenaline, and they’ll kiss until Sam feels dizzy. Still, he’ll probably want to kiss Peter some more, but then Peter remembers Netflix emailed him one of their edits for _Vandal_ or something and presses a kiss to Sam’s forehead before rushing to the computer and logging in.

Or sometimes, in another act of fearlessness, they ditch seventh block and spend in it the back of Peter’s car. (Which is actually Mrs. Maldonado’s old, beat up Subaru-- she won’t let Peter blow his Netflix money on new car until he’s off to college. Peter just wanted some bland Toyota anyways, but, whatever. Either way, Sam is pretty much contractually obligated as his best friend/co-producer/boyfriend to give him shit about how ugly it is). He’ll drive them somewhere secluded and park, shutting off the One Direction song Sam had been blasting that Peter pretended he didn’t enjoy.

Sam’s got long, lanky legs so Peter’s usually the one in his lap, though Sam doesn’t mind that. At all. Peter’s lungs still suck so he needs to catch his breath after a bit or else he’ll have an asthma attack, but Sam doesn’t mind that either, busying himself by pressing kisses against Peter’s neck. They’re gentle, kind of sloppy because it’s a weird angle, and Peter’s a little ticklish there so he squirms at first. He barely registers Peter hum of approval in his ear, or the quick peck on his temple, but when he does he goes all Teenage Boy.

“Can I like, give you a hickey?” Sam looked up as he tried to catch his own breath.

“What are you, thirteen?” Peter asked, leaning back, their hands still intertwined. He said it like they’re not both super inexperienced, like they weren’t each other’s first kisses right before junior year began.

Sam flushed, “Isn’t it like, a hot, Boyfriend-y thing to do?”

“I think it’s more like a lowkey cannibal thing to do, dude,” Peter replied, “Besides, you know I want our moments to be just our moments. People don’t need to see, like, bruises on my neck to know what we get up to.”

Sam nodded, “Yeah, no, you’re right.”

He removed his hand from Peter’s and let his head fall back on the headrest, glancing outside to see that they’re parked sort of near where they had their first date.

“That doesn’t mean we have to… stop though,” Peter said, and Sam snapped his attention back to him.

A dopey grin spread across his face, “Okay. Cool.”

 

(Peter did let Sam do it once, later, and it’s fun. As always, they’re both kind of right in the end. He sorta felt like some YA vampire protagonist when he grazed his teeth against skin under Peter’s jaw, but they both like it. Except when Peter was way too obvious about it the next day, wearing a hoodie with the strings pulled all the way closed. Which might be normal for him, but it’s one of those annoying California autumn days where somehow, it’s like, 78 degrees, and Mrs. Maldonado gave them both that knowing Mom Look and Sam wanted to die on the spot).

 

Sam finds himself thinking about these moments a lot lately. Which, yeah, it’s not unusual to be thinking about making out with your boyfriend, especially when before they got together Sam would just daydream about them, like, just holding hands all the time. But now those experiences are _real_ \-- maybe not as dreamy and perfect as Sam imagined, but he holds them close to his heart all the same.  

It’s not just the Big Moments he replays in his mind, but it’s the sound of Peter’s infectious laugh at some pretentious film meme on twitter, or the way he chews on his glasses when he’s deep in thought. How he’ll squeeze Sam’s hand or look at him like _that_ before grinning and turning away.

These memories that loop through his mind like some sort of supercut before he goes to sleep or when he’s spacing out in Spanish lead him to the realization that he’s in love with Peter. Like, capital L.

And okay, yeah, he’s always _loved_ Peter, even just as friends when they were younger. They have that deep connection, a sense of understanding without having to say a word. He’s felt that tug on his heart for a long time, whether it was watching Peter as he read from the morning announcements, or when he’s leans in to give him a goodnight kiss. But there’s feeling love and then _being_ in love.

It’s hard to describe being in love, which is probably how you know you’re in it, as the saying goes. Or maybe Sam’s just shitty with his words— he doesn’t have the best track record with essays, and the only writing he did for _Vandal_ was the segment where he just used a lot of adjectives for penis, so it’s safe to say Peter’s the more creative one of them in that regard. Whatever it is, Sam just knows he wouldn’t mind if he was with Peter forever, even though he can be stubborn or knows just what to say to piss Sam off. At the end of the day, they make each other better.

Sam almost told him the moment it finally clicked, except Peter would’ve killed him for such a public declaration (given he didn’t die of embarrassment first). They were waiting for the rest of their class to finish the APUSH test, and maturely played footsie underneath their desks. Peter was smiling, like, full on beaming with teeth and crinkly eyes. It’s a rare sight, and honestly that might be a good thing, because every time Sam catches it, he feels as though the wind got knocked out of him.

He always pictured this moment being the epitome of romance—candles and roses and kisses, waxing poetic under the moonlight (probably in iambic pentameter), as a shooting star leapt across the sky. Instead, Peter wore the same hoodie (which really belongs to Sam) and sweatpants he had on when they pulled an all-nighter to study, and Sam hadn’t brushed his hair. The kid that’s a little too obsessed with communism, to the point where Sam’s pretty sure he wants to fuck Stalin, looked up to glare at them for giggling every couple of minutes. And Sam was exhausted and bored as hell, but he had the overwhelming feeling of comfort and belonging. This is where he’s supposed to be, and everything’s just fine. It doesn’t matter that he completely bullshitted that last free response question, because Peter’s right there, smiling at him.

The time he’s given to reflect on this realization takes a blow to his whole ‘fearlessness’ thing though. Sam’s definitely not ashamed of it, or the fact that he feels so strongly for Peter, but it’s that Peter won’t feel the same.

Again, he knows Peter loves him, but that difference of ‘in love’? Sam has no clue. He doesn’t know if Peter is as serious about them as he is, at least not yet, because it’s hard as fuck to tell. Just like his PDA thing, Peter doesn’t really tell Sam how he feels. They’ll say, ‘I love you’ when they hang up the phone, or when they’re caught up in the moment. Sometimes, they text each other hearts and wholesome memes, but Sam already knows that doesn’t mean much to Peter because he said so himself.

“It’s like, you can love your friends, and care for someone and all, but… We’ll send ‘ily’ and heart emojis to say goodnight or thank someone for sending you the math homework. How is that comparable to wanting to be with someone forever, or being so completely infatuated with the way someone makes you feel? It just doesn’t mean the same thing it used to.”

Honestly, Sam kinda agrees. Not necessarily in such a pessimistic way, but he sees the merit behind the statement. Like, he loves Gabi, and tells her all the time, but it’s not the same way he feels about Peter, no matter how much the other boy believed it in sophomore year.

Sam can say, ‘I love you’ to Peter, and vice versa, and it’ll mean something-- just not exactly what Sam wants to convey.

He knows Peter would freak out if Sam told him what he was feeling, since he’s not great with his emotions. What if Peter just views them as some fun high school relationship, and Sam dumps all of this on him out of left field? The last thing Sam wants is for Peter to run away, or to hear that he doesn’t love him back.

 

Sam’s been tossing and turning over this for the past week and a half, unsure what to do. He knows he can’t keep it a secret forever, but how long does he wait? How would he even go about telling him?

It’s a problem for Future Sam though, because Peter texts him that he’s waiting out front. 

Outside it’s pouring, heavy droplets colliding with concrete and creating puddles that take up most of his lawn. Sam dreads leaving the comfort of his home, even if it was just to go across the yard and into Peter’s car. He reminds himself why Peter’s picking him up-- Mrs. Maldonado is gone for some weekend long business conference. It would be stupid not to take advantage of some privacy.

“I’m leaving!” Sam yells as he opens the front door, though he’s not sure if anyone actually heard him.

Miraculously, he’s not entirely soaked by the time he makes it to the car, though he almost loses his foot slamming the passenger door closed before he’s even completely inside.

“Hey,” Sam greets, out of breath but with a smile on his face. He takes in the sight of his boyfriend next to him; Peter’s hair a curly mess around his head because of the rain. It’s frustratingly endearing, plus he’s all bundled up in a cozy green knit sweater that makes his eyes pop, and Sam almost blurts out that he loves him right then and there, but manages to reel his emotions in.

Peter grabs a towel from the backseat, as if he brought it just for this very cause and hands it to him.

“Here, I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Sam takes it gratefully and dries off his hair, ruining its perfect styling before draping the towel over the seat to keep it from getting anymore wet than it already was.  

For once Sam is content to let Peter play his pretentious soft indie music in the car, the rain playing accompanist by pounding on the glass as Peter switches gears and drives to his house. Sometimes Peter will hum along gently to the melody, his finger tapping along to the beat as he focuses on the road. By no means is Peter an amazing singer, just perfectly average, but it’s low and comforting, and Sam feels privileged he gets to see Peter like this. Not overanalyzing some case or putting on his Serious Documentarian Face but living in the moment—vulnerable.

That calm demeanor is ruined when another car on the road cuts Peter off.

“Don’t they know they shouldn’t pull shit like that when it’s raining?” Peter says, knuckles turning white where he grips the wheel harder, “I mean, we could’ve gotten in a serious accident.”

Sam reaches over the console and places his hand on Peter’s thigh. “Babe, it’s okay. We’re fine, right?”

Peter nods, jaw unclenching as he looked over at Sam. A flicker of a smile spreads across his face before he directs his attention back to the road, and a warmth grows in Sam’s chest.

Unlike Sam, Peter had the foresight to bring an umbrella in his car, and they huddle underneath it as they walk to the door and wait for Peter to unlock it.

Once inside, Sam pulls Peter in for a kiss, but it catches Peter off guard and he stumbles over the shoes they’d just taken off.

“Woah there,” Sam grabs Peter before he could crash into the wall, and brings him closer, “I know I’m all sexy and irresistible, but there’s no need to _fall_ so hard for me.”

He cringes as soon as it comes out his mouth. Sure, he always makes dumb jokes without thinking about them, and he’s said worse things, but the punchline is at the expense of the very thing he’s been worried about saying.

Peter doesn’t seem to notice Sam’s panic though and rolls his eyes fondly, “Don’t flatter yourself. Your shirt has a hole in it. I don’t think that qualifies as sexy.”

“Rude!” Sam jokingly protests, but he’s just glad Peter didn’t notice how Sam’s face went white after he had said it. Probably because he’s already super pasty, but, still. Peter had a weird ability to sense when something was up, especially when it came to Sam.

“Cute, maybe,” Peter teases, and actually kisses him now, bringing Sam in by the back of his neck. No bodily injury this time, except for Sam’s chest feeling like it was caving in on itself because it feels so good, soothing and exhilarating at the same time. Because he’s crumbling under his unsaid confession, and holy fuck he’d only been around Peter for like, ten minutes, _get your shit together Ecklund_.

But Sam’s dumbass mouth continues to move faster than his brain, and when they break apart, he quips, “Cute’s sort of an undersell. Like, yeah, I have boyish charm, but I also know you want to tap this.”

What. The. _Fuck_.

“Um,” Peter’s brows furrow, “That’s like, the worst way to describe sex. We’re not straight jocks, Sam.”

“No, yeah, I just meant like. Hot is a more apt word. It’s between sexy and cute.”

Peter shrugs off his jacket and walks into the kitchen, “Okay, sure, I think you’re hot. Can we make some dinner now? I’m starving.”

Sam nods quickly, appreciatively taking the out of this horrible conversation Peter offered him.

(Also, how could Peter just call him hot so nonchalantly, like it was just some fact pinned to the case board and not something that made the tips of Sam’s ears go bright pink?)

They went to work on making some spaghetti, Peter putting together the sauce while Sam waits for the water to boil. His mother always said a watched pot never boils, so he decides to focus on Peter instead.

Like Sam, Peter is by no means jaw droppingly hot or anything, but he’s changed quite a bit since sophomore year. He puts slightly more effort into his hair, and his cheekbones and jawline has become more pronounced. Peter carries himself with more confidence now too. He’s still slouchy and unsmiling most of the time, but he doesn’t try to retract into himself or blend into the wall quite as much.

Peter glances over at him as he stirs the sauce, “You’re staring.”

It’s not admonishing, in fact, there’s an undertone of affection with his observation.

“I know,” Sam replies, a smile tugging at his lips.

As they cook, they move around easily around each other, like when Peter reaches under Sam’s arm for some spices as he spreads butter on the bread, or how Sam tugs Peter closer to him because he was about to catch his sleeve on fire. It reminds Sam of working on the case, the little dance they performed as they pinned up theories and covered the board in string.

Spaghetti is by no means the most difficult meal to make, but Sam’s proud of them nevertheless, mostly because he would’ve just ordered some takeout if it hadn’t been storming out.

Peter’s kind of the worst at eating, and by that Sam means that he saw Peter manage to make a whole slice of pizza fall apart as he ate it. Now, he watches as Peter slurps up some noodles, catching Sam’s gaze and looking away, a light blush dusting his cheeks. The whole ‘Lady and the Tramp’ thing pops into Sam’s head, and he wonders what it’d be like if they tried it. Peter must be able to tell what he was thinking about and shakes his head, shutting down the idea before he could even suggest it. Probably for the better.

Sam rips his garlic bread in half and uses his fork to pile the noodles onto the bread. He lifts the spaghetti sandwich into his mouth, but before he can take a bite, he hears Peter’s fork clatter onto his plate.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh, eating?”

Peter shakes his head, “Why—wha… You’re putting _spaghetti_ on your _bread_?”

“It’s a spaghetti sandwich,” Sam shrugs, “Lots of people eat spaghetti like this.”

“You’re actually disgusting, oh my god,” Peter says in disbelief.

Some of the noodles fell out of Sam’s mouth as he speaks, “You’re just hating because you’ve never had the idea to do something so innovative, so brave. C’mon, try it!”

“I’d rather watch another insipid Hollywood reboot than even _let_ that come near my face. I mean, it’s not even,” Peter stops, unable to process it all, “ _It’s not a sandwich_!”

Sam set the sandwich back down on his plate, “So, if I called it spaghetti on bread, then it’d be okay?”

Peter thinks for a moment. “I mean, it’s more technically accurate, but I still think it’s an abomination.”

“I’ll take it.”

While Sam enjoys how disgusted Peter was throughout their meal, he’s lowkey worried Peter is going to kick him out of the house, so he tones down his chaotic antics a smidge. Thankfully, Peter just tells Sam they would never eat spaghetti together again as they wash the dishes, which is fair.

Even though it’s a bit pathetic, Sam feels his heart speed up ever so slightly as they walk up the stairs without Mrs. Maldonado teasing and telling them to keep the door open. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason Sam was there—as disgustingly cheesy as it sounded, Sam doesn’t really mind what they were doing if he was with Peter. Still, kissing and whatever else came with it was a bonus.

Recently Peter moved his mattress up to what was essentially the attic, which at first Mrs. Maldonado had protested, since being so close to his workspace would just enable Peter’s insomnia. Then Peter pointed out that he’d just work on _Vandal_ stuff anyways, and at least he’d be able to pass out comfortably instead of face down at his desk.

It was a sweet setup, and Peter already had most of his things up there anyways, but it was always freezing cold, especially on stormy days like this one. They quickly settle onto Peter’s bed, a fluffy blanket over their shoulders as Peter turns on his laptop, impatiently tapping the space bar to wake it up.

“Unfortunately, it’s your pick tonight,” Peter says as he logs in, referring to their movie nights, “And judging by your taste in food, we’re in for a shitty movie.”

Sam scoffs, “Hey, I have impeccable taste. You said you liked _Camp Rock_ last time I chose.”

“No, I said I liked _Camp Rock_ in _comparison_ to what we were watching, _Camp Rock 2._ That’s not—”

“ _The Final Jam_ ,” Sam talks over Peter.

“Like, a glow-- What?”

“The official title is ‘ _Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam’_ ,” Sam corrects, “You of all people should know not to disrespect the name of a cinematic masterpiece.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “Fine. Anyways, that wasn’t a glowing review of _Camp Rock,_ it’s just not as shitty as _Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam_.”

“But you like ‘Introducing Me’, though, right?” Sam asks. This was a potentially relationship ending question.

“I mean, sure. That one’s fun,” Peter agrees. Phew. Relationship saved.

Still, he decides to push Peter’s buttons some more.

“Just fun? It’s the height of romance.”

“Sam, you said that about like, every Troy and Gabriella song. They can’t all be the height of romance,” Peter shakes his head.

“I mean, they all represent different romantic situations and dynamics—”

Peter groans, putting his hand up to stop Sam from continuing, “Okay, that’s it. You can choose the movie if it’s not some DCOM. I can’t deal with it anymore.”

“But it’s my turn,” Sam reminds him, “You don’t get to control what I pick. Not to sound like you, but we have rules in place for a reason.”

“Yeah, but it’s my house.”

Sam narrows his eyes at Peter, “It’s _always_ your house.”

“Listen, I just know if we do, you’re gonna spend the whole time singing the songs or reciting the lines, and I’d rather not do that tonight,” Peter says, eyes trailing down to Sam’s lips.

_Oh._

“Okay, fine,” Sam scooches closer to him and grabs the laptop, typing in 123 Movies, “Phil was telling me about this fun horror film he watched last weekend with Randall. Supposed to be pretty good.”

Peter nods, “Sounds good. As long as you don’t get too scared.”

“Please, I’m not gonna get scared,” Sam says, rapidly clicking away all the pop-up ads, “I’m _Sam Ecklund_.”

“Is that, like… supposed to mean something, or?” Peter teases, “You sound like some character on a shitty teen drama.”

Sam laughs, “It means I’m like... Fearless.”

“Oh, that’s the official etymology?”

“Just shut up, it’s about to start.”

Despite Peter’s implications, he tries to focus on the movie, though their version of focusing on movie night still entailed a constant stream of commentary. Ten minutes in, Peter had predicted the protagonist’s roommate was actually evil, and Sam had already proclaimed the comedic relief to be a bi icon. A typical movie night. 

But the pacing was _so slow_ , to the point where Sam felt like was going to fall asleep on Peter’s shoulder before Act One was even done. And he couldn’t help that his mind kept going to Peter, the way that the other boy was playing with Sam’s fingers absently, his eyes glazed over and facing the screen.

About half an hour in, Sam figures it was probably an appropriate time to give up any pretense of watching the movie. He shifts his head from its spot before pressing a kiss at the crook of Peter’s neck. It’s so feather light that in his spaced-out state, Peter doesn’t notice it, so Sam moves up a bit higher and kisses the spot with more intention, making Peter squirm.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, unable to hold in the giggle that tumbles from his mouth.

Sam looks up at him, “C’mon, you’re the documentarian. I think you can figure it out.”

 “I thought you wanted to watch this movie?” Peter grins, but it’s that exasperating one that only plays on his lips when he’s being a little shit.

He cups Peter’s face in with his hand, stroking his thumb along the smooth skin of Peter’s cheek, “You’re so annoying.”

Though not annoying enough for Sam not to bring Peter closer and kiss him.

Peter quickly sets his glasses on his bedside table once they break apart, and Sam resituates himself so the angle wouldn’t be as awkward, straddling his legs over one of Peter’s. They meet in the middle once more, the sensation making Sam feel almost weightless, like if Peter’s hand on the back of his neck wasn’t keeping him tethered, he might float away like a balloon.

The movie is left forgotten as they continue, getting lost in the now familiar yet electrifying sensation of skin brushing against skin, sending Sam’s nerves on fire. He’s only focused on Peter, the soft hum he lets out, or the way his fingertips slide under the hem of Sam’s shirt when he deepens the kiss, holding onto his hips.

Sam pulls away long enough for Peter to help him take off his shirt, his head getting stuck in the fabric for a moment before he throws it across the room. Peter slides down lower on the mattress, so that Sam is now hovering over him, bracing his hands on either side of his face.

 He allows himself a moment to look at Peter, his hazel eyes with their pupils blown and watching Sam with an almost unholy amount of adoration. It feels like a sucker punch to his stomach, but in the best way possible, and Sam grins before dipping his head down and trailing kisses down from Peter’s jaw to his collarbone, sucking lightly in the space between them.

“Sammy,” Peter warns, his voice strained. Sam’s head snaps up at the sound, not used to hearing it from Peter, and sees him staring up at the ceiling. “You’re gonna end up leaving a mark.”

“Fuck, you’re right. My bad.”

He pulls back, waiting to see if Peter wants to stop or keep going, and is answered when Peter threads his fingers through Sam’s hair and draws him back down, their noses bumping together and getting in the way of the kiss. Sam chuckles before trying again. They fit together this time, but Sam keeps it chaste because Peter is breathing a little too hard.

“You good?” Sam asks, a bit breathless himself, “Need your inhaler?”

“No,” Peter shakes his head, “’M fine.”

He cranes his neck and chases Sam’s lips again, and Sam’s brain is turning into fucking mush, like, broken up Jell-O status, and then Peter’s hand starts trailing down Sam’s bare skin and _holy shit_ —

A blood curdling scream tears through the room. Peter flinches while Sam flies backwards, heart hammering out of his chest. He whips his head to the laptop, where a horrifying monster is decapitating one of the characters, blood and guts spewing everywhere.

“Holy shit, what the _actual_ _fuck_ is _that?_ ” Sam exclaims, on the verge of throwing up that spaghetti sandwich from earlier.

“What?” Peter asks, reaching for his glasses, “What was it?”

Sam’s mouth hangs wide open, “You don’t wanna know, man.”

“Are you okay?” Peter sits up, putting a hand on Sam’s back and rubbing it.

“Yeah, I mean. That was just fucking terrifying,” Sam answers, “My heart was already going pretty fast there and then…”

Peter nods, pressing a quick kiss to Sam’s shoulder before drawing back, “Let’s take a break then.”

“Okay,” he agrees, even though part of him wants to keep going. The other is still scared shitless, and feels like if he closes his eyes, he’ll see the monster again.

Beside him Peter searches for Sam’s baseball tee on the floor, but he must’ve thrown it too far, so Peter hands him one of his own tops.

“Is it weird that I kinda wanna keep watching?” Sam says, putting his arms through the sleeves of the hoodie. It’s the grey one Peter always wears, and he feels kinda special getting to wear it. “Like, I need to know what happens.”

“I mean, you shouldn’t scare yourself. The plot doesn’t even sound that good anyways.”

“I dunno, I just like, need to know if they kill that fucker, so then I know it doesn’t really exist,” Sam admits. It feels stupid to disclose, especially after he had just boasted about being fearless earlier but being open with Peter feels natural.

Peter grabs the laptop and throws the blankets over them. “Then let’s watch it, I guess. That way I get to confirm I’m right about the evil roommate.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Okay, Mr. Know-It-All.”

He has no fucking idea why Phil implied that this film was a good make-out thriller. Like yeah, there were a lot of dull moments, but that creature is so fucking creepy, the way it moves and the noises it makes. Him and Randall must be weirdos.

Peter doesn’t seem to be bothered by the film, often pointing out plot holes, or how bad the special effects were. Part of Sam could tell Peter was saying those things to help Sam calm down, but the other knew Peter was just a film snob. Still, he doesn’t make fun of Sam for gripping onto his wrist as the main girl walked down a dark corridor, or how he hides behind his shoulder during the finale.

In the end, Peter was right about the evil roommate, who had summoned the demonic creature to kill the protagonist. Unfortunately, the monster didn’t totally die when the Final Girl bashed its brains in, and Sam feels cheated. Creeped the fuck out and cheated. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to try to finish it.

“Well,” Peter yawns out, closing the laptop and setting it aside, “Don’t listen to Phil’s movie recs ever again.”

Sam nods, “I think even you can agree it was objectively worse than _Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam_.”

Peter chuckles softly, eyes lingering on Sam for a moment before focusing on fiddling with a loose string on his sleeve. And fuck, he still looks so good, and Sam really wants to continue where they left off, but it was getting late and Sam still feels unsettled after the film.

He isn’t sure how to voice this, but apparently, he doesn’t need to. Peter gives him a small smile before getting up and going through his dresser, tossing a pair of sweats in Sam’s direction before changing into his own pajamas.

Sam stays on Peter’s heels as they go downstairs to brush their teeth, even waiting to watch Peter over-floss and inspect his teeth for a minute before returning to his room. No way was he gonna walk up and down those stairs in the dark by himself.

It was still storming out, which does nothing to calm Sam’s nerves, the wind rustling the leaves wildly outside the windows and casting strange shadows on the wall. They settle under the mound of blankets on Peter’s bed, Peter shimmying so far under that half of his face was covered. He’s never been good at handling the cold, to the point where it’s a bit ridiculous even with how chilly it was in the attic. Like most things about Peter, Sam finds it charming, even though he’s been at the receiving end of Peter’s annoying habit of pressing his freezing cold hands on his cheeks to warm up. Curse his naturally flushed face.

He presses a kiss onto the sliver of Peter’s cheek that is still exposed, “Goodnight Pete.”

“Night Sammy,” Peter replies, his voice soft and sleepy. A cadence he’s heard often in Peter’s voice, since he’s always working himself into exhaustion. This time, Sam is privy to seeing the fucking cutest thing he’s possibly ever seen--- Peter burying his face into the pillow, nose nuzzling against the fleece.

That, in combination with the nickname, makes Sam warm all over, a wave of peace washing over him. He tries to get comfortable, rolling over and bringing his knees closer to his chest.

But despite Peter’s presence and the comfortable mattress, Sam can’t sleep. He keeps about thinking that creature from the movie bursting through the glass panes and killing the two of them. Each time he shifts his position and screws his eyes shut he’s met with the image of the girl’s head rolling off her body.

“Are you still freaked out?” Peter asks after Sam’s been turning restlessly for forty minutes.

Sam rolls over on his back and lets out a huff of frustration. “Yeah, sorry. Can’t sleep.”

“It’s fine. Though it’s kind of ironic. I’m usually the one keeping _you_ up.”

“That would be really hot if you weren’t talking about your severe insomnia and stubborn need to work yourself into the ground,” Sam quips, turning over once more to look at Peter.

“It’s not being stubborn,” Peter argues, his bushy brows furrowing so deeply that the skin on his forehead bunches together abnormally, “It’s called dedication.”

Sam scoffs, “See, you’re being stubborn about your stubbornness!”

Peter laughs, the kind that’s just a huff of air coming out his nose, “Okay, okay. Is there anything I can do to help you relax?”

Sam thinks for a moment, not really sure what would fix it except going to sleep and not waking up dead.

Eventually he settles on a request, “Could you, like… check to make sure everything’s locked up?”

“’Course,” Peter responds, accidentally kicking Sam’s leg as he gets up from the bed, “You’ll be okay up here all alone?”

“Mhm.”

He watches as Peter haphazardly puts on his glasses and pads out of the room, leaving Sam by himself. In the dark.

Okay, yeah, he regrets telling Peter to go off without him. That’s like, horror movie 101. No splitting up. Then again, he also has no desire to be walking around the house and checking for any intruders, turning corners without knowing what would be there. At least he was cozy and comfortable on Peter’s bed.

Sam keeps checking the time on his phone, and once five minutes pass, he starts to worry. He attempts to muster up some courage to drag himself out from under the covers and check downstairs, but a booming crash of thunder and lightning rings outside, and Sam jumps out of his skin.

Thankfully, Peter returns a minute later, this time with a metal baseball bat in his hands.

“Sorry, thought I’d grab this to help bring you some peace of mind,” Peter presents the bat before setting it down next to mattress, “Not that anything is going to come in, but, just on the off chance something gets past the security system and all the locks, we’re prepared.”

“Thanks dude,” Sam smiles, lifting the covers so Peter can climb under them again, “I didn’t know you played baseball.”

Peter shrugs, removing his glasses, “I didn’t. My dad bought it before the divorce, so we could, like, bond or whatever. As you can guess, I sucked. But I also didn’t care that I sucked, because I was much more interested in Legos and watching the same movie every day. But my dad would get so frustrated about it. Me not hitting the ball and not caring about what he wanted me to. So, I checked out a book at the library and researched how to hit a home run.”

Sam snorts, “God, you’ve always been the same old Peter, huh?”

Peter nods, “It took a few tries, obviously, but then I finally hit the ball and the look on his face… I was so happy that he was proud. And then I went to run the bases and well… That’s how we figured out I had asthma.”

“Jesus,” Sam shakes his head, “That sounds horrible.”

Silence falls over them for a moment, Peter staring up at the ceiling, neither sure what to say. Sam only knew a bit about Peter’s dad, and most of that was from Mrs. Maldonado anyways. When they were younger, Peter would talk about him sometimes, but it was usually a comment made in passing, never much about what he was like or their relationship. Not that he can’t infer it was pretty crappy, since Peter never sees him anymore, the only proof that his dad remembers him coming in the form of the child support and short voicemail on his birthday.

Sam moves closer, draping his arm across Peter’s stomach and resting his head on his chest. It’s one of the few times that he doesn’t really know what to say or do to help Peter feel better, even by way of distraction. He’s not sure if that’s what Peter wants anyways, but he can feel the way Peter’s muscles relax a bit, his own arm curling around Sam.

“I’ll stay up until you fall asleep, okay?” Peter says after some time, his hand finding its way in Sam’s hair and massaging his head, “Make sure nothing happens.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Really, your tossing and turning will just keep me up anyways. Go to sleep Sam.”

Sam looks up at Peter for a second, assessing his face. His emotion is indiscernible, but he can tell Peter won’t budge on this. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

Blindingly bright light peeking through the clouds wakes Sam up the next morning, and he wiggles his toes to make sure the demon didn’t eat them while he slept. Still there. He must’ve detangled from Peter in his sleep, because he’s facing the other direction. With an exaggerated yawn he rolls over, greeted with the sight of Peter still dozing, a bit of drool on his pillow. Which, like, should be gross, and it is, but Sam finds himself glad that he was able to nod off. He doesn’t usually get to see Peter in deep sleep, because of the whole insomniac thing. Plus, Sam’s a heavy sleeper, so Peter usually gets up before him even if he only slept for a few hours.

Peter’s face is peaceful like this, lips hanging open and slightly snoring. His hand is fisted around one of the blankets, and his foot is hooked under Sam’s own. It quickly, (to the point where’s it’s somewhat embarrassing and horribly predictable for someone as lovestruck as him), reminds Sam of how he woke up the morning after their appearance on _The Daily Show_.

 

They’d flown to New York late October for some _American Vandal_ press, which was probably the worst time to do that for Juniors in high school with midterms and all, but it was _The Daily Show._ Trevor Noah’s face. Being on TV. In New York City. Alone. They _had_ to, even without the whole Netflix contract telling them to.

But their flight got delayed, and they couldn’t check in at their hotel beforehand without being late and Peter always gets a bit uncomfortable with press anyways. The interview went well, thank fuck, so Peter was riding a _Vandal_ Accomplishment High, but his mood soured once they arrived at their hotel.

In all the chaos, Sam had forgotten that he had requested their room to be changed from a double to a King Size and asked for rose petals over the sheets like some cheesy motherfucker. Shit.

Peter had begun to yell about how unprofessional it was for the hotel to assume they were together, and that he was going to call the front desk and get this sorted out.

“Wait, Pete, stop. They didn’t assume anything… I asked them to do this.”

Peter slowly returned the phone to its receiver and turned to him. “What?”

Sam’s face went beet red, “I just thought, well, we’re alone here in NYC, and shits been so stressful and… I dunno I thought it would be nice, if we finally... You know. _Do It_. Here. Together.”

Sam’s not usually one to ramble, but his heart was racing, and he had no idea what Peter would say, so he just kept talking so he wouldn’t have to hear anything back.

“Obviously, we’d do it together, you’re the only one I want to do it with. And like, that would be weird anyways, even though I did walk in on you that one time… And it’s not like we haven’t done shit together, but I was like, ‘Oh hey! We still haven’t lost our virginities or whatever, that’d be sick!’ But, uh, if you don’t want to that’s totally cool, I heard they have really great room service, and I could go for a steak—”

“I want to,” Peter interrupted him, face much softer than it was before, “I want to, with you. Here. Together.”

Sam had been unable to keep the large grin from spreading across his face, so hard that his cheeks hurt. He moved closer to Peter, almost tripping over their luggage as he closed the space between them. “Okay. Hell yeah!”

 

And that morning after, similarly to this one, Sam woke up to Peter still slumbering beside him, the sunlight dancing over his skin. Back then, it had spurred something in his stomach, and the beginnings of that In Love feeling possesses his heart now. But even with drool on his pillow, Sam can’t help but feel even more enamored now at the sight of Peter than he did before.

Peter shifts slightly in his sleep and breaks Sam out of his musing, and he notices an eyelash stuck at the top of Peter’s cheekbone. He wipes it off with his thumb, wondering what wish Peter would’ve made if he was awake. If he’d wish Sam loved him back as much as he did, that they could spend every morning like this.

And shit, Sam was really fucked if he had to keep these feelings inside for much longer. Even with the distractions of movie night debates or makeout sessions where Sam’s lips were quite literally too occupied to rattle off some long-winded confession. Because while they’re distractions, Peter’s so good at them, at making Sam feel like everything’s gonna be okay, that he ends up falling deeper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! i apologize for the late update, my brain has... not been working lmao. only warning is there's some more stuff about peter and his dad. i hope you enjoy! <3 (also sorry if there was a bunch of notifcations for updating this i change ganj to gange and then back to ganj ergnerglnerglkerg)

If there’s any upside to suffering the onslaught of schoolwork and general chaos that came in March, it’s that Sam doesn’t have time to worry about his whole ‘I’m In Love With Peter’ predicament. It’s still hanging around in the back of his mind, shifting to the front just as he tries to sleep in the early hours of the morning, but during the day he’s just too busy to focus on it.

Plus, they aren’t spending as much time together, between studying and Sam working behind the scenes for the play afterschool-- which is to say they still hang out every day for multiple hours. Peter picks Sam up most of the time, they do the morning announcements, eat lunch together, have weekly movie nights, etc. But given that Sam practically lived at the Maldonado’s while they worked on _Vandal_ and only slightly less after that, it’s a noticeable difference for him. Although most of their one-on-one time feels brief, his confession to tumble from his lips, even if Peter just holds a door open for him or something. He doesn’t, obviously, because it’d be ridiculous. And because he’s getting better at keeping it in.

Besides, Sam decided that once he tells Peter, he wants it to be special. Even though Peter doesn’t like sappy shit, he wants to pick the perfect place, with beautiful lights and flowers and everything that fuels his hopeless romantic heart. It helps Sam rationalize not telling Peter right away—they have time, and he’s going to use that time to make it perfect.

Except right now, Peter doesn’t really have time, because he’s running late to the do the morning announcements. And while someone can take his spot as Sam’s co-anchor, Sam’s too tired and annoyed to have to listen to their new freshman, Matt, stumble over the lines when he could be lovingly gazing at Peter’s resting bitch face.

Sam sends another text to Peter, making eye contact with Matt, who also looks less than thrilled about the prospect of filming in five minutes. Honestly, The Morning Show had been a bit of a mess this year. With the seniors and Ming gone, there was a lot of rearranging and teaching to be done. Thankfully, Christa Carlyle had the foresight to have Sam and Peter be co-anchors last year, along with some help from Madison Kaplan for a smoother transition. Sam had insisted then that it was because of their sparkling personalities and magnetic rapport; but Christa had explained that she wasn’t going to let the announcements go to shit once the backbones of the show, herself and Madison, graduated. Looking back on it, they should’ve been able to tell Christa was capable of the vandalism, with how much she used her intellect and controlling attitude to get shit done.

The chaos has improved some over the past semester, though Phil’s ego inflated since being promoted to doing the in-field lunch report. Apparently, that makes him better than Sam, Peter, and Randall (a.k.a, his own boyfriend), who literally made something that Netflix picked up, but, whatever. It’s obviously not something that bothers Sam. Other than that, one of the sophomore girls accidentally deleted all the footage last month, and a couple of the freshmen boys are little Dylan Maxwell-s, constantly goofing off and being disrespectful. Peter is much better at keeping them, and everyone else, in line compared to Sam. (Not that Sam tries super hard to keep everyone in check. He honestly enjoys seeing Peter be bossy, and usually just lets him take the reigns when something goes amiss).

Mr. Baxter turns to Sam, one eyebrow arched incredibly high. It’s a mixture of ‘is Peter coming?’ and ‘if you don’t get him here, I’m making you two clean up the studio at the end of the week’. It’s effectively intimidating, so Sam goes to his recent call list and taps Peter’s name, who’s at the very top, just above Gabi and their favorite pizza place.

He doesn’t answer, and Sam hangs up before Peter can finish his monotonous and overly professional voicemail. Sitting through that won’t help how sleepy he already is from working on homework all night. He’s resigning himself to having to do the announcements with Matt when Peter comes bursting through the door, a couple minutes to spare and holding two cups of coffee.

“Sorry I’m late,” Peter apologizes as he tries to regulate his heavy breathing.

Mr. Baxter just sighs and returns to reminding of the Dylan’s how to focus the camera.

“Almost ruined your perfect attendance there Pete,” Sam smirks, looking Peter up and down as he stops in front of the desk Sam’s sitting on, slotted between his legs. He’s wearing the flannel Sam likes on him. Sam considers a bit of a good luck charm, since it’s the one he wore once they finally figured out Christa did the dicks. Plus, Peter just looks _good_ in it.

Peter rolls his eyes fondly, “Yeah, joke all you want, but I was actually getting coffee for you.”

“What?” He’s a bit surprised, since he never asked for it.

“You were telling me about how you were up late practicing for your speech in Am Lit, so I thought you could use some caffeine,” Peter explains and hands one of the cups to Sam, along with a small paper bag, “And I know how much you like banana bread from Starbucks, so…”

Sam leans in to give Peter a quick kiss. He knows it’s a violation of Peter’s no PDA thing, but he can’t resist it. Peter doesn’t look too mad about it when they break apart, though. “Thanks babe, seriously.”

Peter smiles softly, “No problem. Can I see the announcements?”

In their short interaction, Sam completely forgot that they’d be filming in a minute, so maybe Sam’s not as good as reeling his emotions for Peter in as he’d thought.

He grabs the extra script from the seat of the desk and hands it to Peter, taking a sip of his coffee. Only, instead of the sweet caramel latte he’s expecting, his taste buds are overwhelmed with bitterness, his face twisting up in disgust.

“Um, Pete, I think you gave me yours,” Sam’s pushes the drink forward while trying to get the nasty taste out of his mouth.

Peter looks up from the paper and his mouth turns into a little ‘o’. “Shit, my bad,” he switches their drinks, “That should be better.”

Sam takes another sip, welcomed with coffee that’s more sweet syrup than anything. Much better.

“Peter, Samuel, let’s go,” Mr. Baxter calls for them. He’s using Sam’s full name, so they know he a bit pissed and thus take their spots at the desk in record time. Peter continues to look over the announcements while Sam uses the camera on his phone to fix his hair.

Despite Peter barely making it on time, the announcements go fine. Though Sam misses his cue, as he was too busy watching Peter mess with the sleeves of his flannel. But that’s been happening since freshman year, so it’s not exactly a new problem.

“That’s it for today’s morning announcements, Humpbacks! Have a Whimsical Wednesday!”

Once Randall gives them the signal that they were no longer recording, Peter gathers the papers and stacks them, “Whimsical Wednesday?”

“Last week was wacky, and the week before was wonderful. There’s not a lot of ‘W’ adjectives to choose from,” Sam gets up and stretches out his limbs, catching Peter watching the way his shirt rides up slightly as extends his arms above his head. “If you think you’d be better at signing off, go ahead. But Keene said your voice is way too serious and depressing for it. I can’t help that I’m so charismatic.”

Peter rolls his eyes as he walks over to their backpacks, “And humble too. Hey, did I leave my physics flashcards in your locker? I can’t find them.”

Really, Sam’s locker is _their_ locker at this point. Peter refuses to pay for one because it’s ‘not worth the cost’ (they get paid by Netflix now, but, okay), but he still switches out his notebooks between most classes. Maybe even more frequently than Sam does. At least Peter organizes Sam’s mess when he can’t stand it any longer.

“I haven’t stopped by it yet, so I’m not sure, but we can go check,” Sam replies, “But I can always help you study. Remember, I passed with an A last year.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because you had Mr. Turner. He’s way too chill. He called off your finals at the end of the year because he was moving away and didn’t want to grade them,” Peter argues.

Sam shrugs, “It’s not my fault I didn’t get Maeda.”

Peter shook his head in contempt before taking a sip of his black coffee. The fact that he can do it with a straight face disturbs Sam. Another sign that Peter’s sleep schedule was absolutely fucked, and his body needs any form of energy it can get. Whenever Sam says this, Peter rolls his eyes and tells him that his taste buds are too Americanized. Strong black coffee is a Cuban thing, apparently, and Peter has been drinking it since he was young.

They say goodbye to Mr. Baxter, and Peter holds the door open for Sam _(swoon)_ , before they make their way to Sam’s locker across campus.

Peter leans against the other lockers beside him as Sam puts in his combination. He’s not always the best at opening lockers because of his ADHD, his mind wandering and losing place, or blanking for a moment once he gets to his locker. At least this year the numbers to the lock the school gave him aren’t too difficult to remember. _4-20-17._ _4-20_ , because, well, _duh._ It’s weed and it’s funny. _17_ , because that’s the day in August Sam confessed everything. Their anniversary. He takes it as another sign from the universe that they’re meant to be together. Not that he’d tell Peter, because Peter would tell him it’s just a random algorithm, and that he was putting too much faith into the universe. And because telling Peter would mean telling him he thought they’re meant to be together forever. That Sam _wanted_ them to be.

“Oh, hey, you left your hat in my car the other day,” Peter says as Sam stops at the _20_. “The white Vans one. It’s your favorite right?”

Sam flushes, remembering why he had taken it off. Another car hookup, this time in the hour between school let out and Sam had to help with the play. Recently Peter has been doing some investigative journalism on regular Teenage Boyfriend Stuff—feeling comfortable enough to finally see if he enjoys shit like giving hickies. The results are still inconclusive, but like with the vandalism last year, Sam doesn’t mind helping Peter do some research. Not when it means being pressed down into the backseat and kissing until their lips are bright red. Paige Wodecki had teased Sam’s fresh hickey as soon as she saw him, ruffling his already messy hair before sitting him down in the dressing room and covering it with stage makeup.

“Yeah, I’ll get it after school,” Sam swallows thickly. His fingers are a little shaky and moves the lock just past _17._ He still tries opening the locker, just in case, but it won’t budge. He let his head fall on the blue metal door. “ _Fuck_.”

Peter gives him his Concerned Face, but Sam waves him off and puts in his combo once more, this time opening it successfully. The door of his locker has a small mirror and a couple pictures, mostly with Gabi and/or Peter, and there’s one with Ming in the corner. There’s a post-it still up from last week, one from Peter telling him that he couldn’t have lunch because he had a meeting with his advisor. It’s mostly still up because there’s an awkward, misshapen heart in the corner that Sam may or may not have freaked out over all weekend. (Gabi told him he was overreacting, especially since they were already together, and she was probably right).

 He fishes through the mess and finally spots Peter’s flashcards under some crumpled Pre-Stats notes, “Here we go. Again, I totally could’ve told you about the…” He glances at one of the cards, “Achimedes principle? What the fuck is that?”

Peter scoffs and snatches the flashcards from Sam, “Like I said, you’re lucky you didn’t have to study.”

“Speaking of, I feel like we haven’t had a lot of time together because of school,” Sam says, grabbing one his notebooks from his locker, “You wanna go on a date this weekend?”

Peter shrugs, “I mean, we see each other every day, right? Can’t we just do our usual movie night?”

 _Ouch_. Maybe Peter _didn’t_ seem to notice they don’t hang out as much. Or maybe Sam’s being dramatic about the disparity. Everyone tells him he has the tendency to do that. But Peter also doesn’t really understand Dates with a capital D. It’s strange, for someone who wants to cherish special moments between the two of them, Peter also thinks restocking on Expo markers at Target constitutes as a date. Which Sam doesn’t mind, it’s even fun at times, but picking up random knick-knacks from the dollar section and ridiculing the movie selection is not A Date. It’s shit they used to as friends, and now as boyfriends. He doesn’t expect some fancy or cheesy date all the time, especially since Peter isn’t as enchanted by them, but even just something that requires a little bit of effort from both of their ends would be nice. Because it’s a boyfriend thing to do. Something _Sam_ wants to do.

He tries to brush off Peter’s reply, mostly because he knows Peter doesn’t realize it was sort of insensitive. “Yeah, but we do movie nights all the time. I was hoping we could do something special.”

Peter stays silent as Sam zips up his backpack and closes his locker, answering once they start walking again. “Okay, we can go out this weekend. What do you wanna do?”

Honesty, Sam hadn’t really thought that far. There’s not much to do in Oceanside, at least not when it’s still cold out and there’s no reason to hang out at the beach. Peter doesn’t enjoy going much on _summer_ days anyways. They could always do the classic dinner date, but it’s a bit boring, and rich fancy food is overrated.

“Wait, I got it! We could go to Sunset Market tomorrow.”

“ _Tomorrow?_ ” Peter repeats, in disbelief that Sam would suggest such a thing.

Sam nods, “Well, it’s only open on Thursdays.”

“That’s way too short notice to make plans,” Peter shakes his head.

“Dude, we’re having a date night, not like, planning out some crime.”

Peter thwacks his arm, “Dude, don’t say shit like that. You know there’s still people that think we did the dicks.”

“Yeah, and they’re stupid,” Sam replies, stopping by Peter’s first class. “C’mon, it’ll be nice. We can grab some food and walk around.”

 He takes Peter’s hand into his own, his thumb brushing across Peter’s finger in reassuring strokes. Peter looks down where their hands are intertwined before meeting Sam’s gaze, hazel eyes studying his own.

“Sure, let’s go,” Peter says finally, and Sam smiles widely. “But you can’t complain about the crowds.”

Sam nods before pressing a quick kiss to Peter’s cheek. “Absolutely not. Not a peep from me. Besides, we’ll be having too much fun to notice.”

 

 

“Fuck, it’s so crowded tonight,” Sam groans, twisting his body so that he can weave through the influx of people trying to enter the flea market at the same time. Fittingly, it’s around sunset, the sky painted in hues of pink and orange.

“Seriously Sam? We’ve been here less than a minute,” Peter scoffs, shaking his head at Sam. He doesn’t seem very pleased with the amount of people either, especially since someone almost elbows him in the face.  

Sam doesn’t respond, instead expertly navigating through the crowd and finding a spot that’s a little less crowded. He turns to gloat to Peter, but realizes he isn’t next to him anymore. He searches for a presumably scowling and/or confused looking Peter, but Peter’s sort of short and it’s hard to see him over all the tall lanky white boys. Finally, there’s a small break in the crowd and he spots Peter awkwardly skirting around a large family and a pro-PDA couple, before he’s back at Sam’s side.

“There you are,” Peter sighs in relief, “I thought you were accidentally taken in by that group of white guys wearing head to toe Vineyard Vines.”

He nods his head over in the direction of the identical lanky white boys that had gotten in the way of seeing him earlier.

“I know that was a joke, but I’m a bit offended you think I’d ever fit in with people so heterosexual they think Vineyard Vines looks good.”

Peter looks him up and down. “You’re wearing a backwards baseball cap and a cardigan at the same time. And your button up has pugs all over it.”

“Okay, first of all, this shirt is the height of fashion, alright? And secondly, you’re wearing the same grey hoodie you always do,” Sam retorts, “Boyfriends are supposed to accept each other’s flaws.”

Peter flushes slightly and drops the argument.

“But here,” Sam takes a hold of Peter’s hand, “Now you can’t get lost. Where do you wanna stop first?”

“I dunno,” Peter shrugs, looking around the market as they roam. They’re surrounded by different stalls, some selling handcrafted goods and others food, from bags of caramel candies to garlic noodles with seafood. It smells wonderful, but it’s all a bit overwhelming to choose from, even though they’ve both been there before. Sam mostly went as a kid during the summer, eating as much cotton candy as he could before throwing up. “What do _you_ wanna get? As long as it’s not a spaghetti sandwich.”

“C’mon Pete, I know you. I’m sure you did a bunch of research about the best thing to get here. Share your findings.”

Peter looks like he wants to argue with Sam’s assumption for a moment, but sighs in defeat. “The Korean Barbeque is pretty popular. There’s a Thai burger stand, paella, loaded fries. All sorts of stuff.”

They decide on trying out some Thai burgers, mostly because Sam’s interested in what it would end up being. As they wander around, Peter points out another highly recommended vendor that sells lemonade, so they get some of that as well.

Walking while eating isn’t the best idea because of Peter’s inability to properly eat food, so they search for any place to sit and eat. Unfortunately, the limited amount of seating is already taken, so they end up sitting on a concrete planter box near the live music stage. The band is, predictably, awful.

Thankfully, the food is much better than the entertainment, and Sam devours his ‘burger’ quickly. Peter manages to get several grains of the sticky rice bun around his mouth, which Sam, ever the gentleman, laughs at.

“What?” Peter looks at him wide eyed, then turning to see if something was behind him, “What’s so funny?”

“You— you have--” Sam can’t get his sentence out because he’s laughing too hard. It’s not even that funny, but there’s something about how much of a human disaster Peter is that makes Sam lose his shit. “Rice. All over you.”

Peter groans and wipes it off with a napkin, then brushes the rice that fell on his clothes onto the ground before facing Sam. “Good?”

“No,” Sam chuckles, reaching forward and picking off a stray grain from the corner of his mouth, “There we go. I _actually_ don’t know how you survive without me.”

Peter doesn’t say anything back, and Sam’s worried that he took it as an insult rather than a joke. Except he doesn’t have his signature pissed of look-- it’s his face of contemplation, like he’s trying to think of an answer even though Sam didn’t really ask anything.

Sam’s about to say something stupid to diffuse the situation, but someone else comes up to do it for him.

“Yooooooo!” The infamous Dylan Maxwell stands in front of them. “It’s Pete and his boy!”

Honestly, Sam’s not sure if Dylan really knows his name, since he almost exclusively refers to him as ‘Pete’s boy’. He’s torn with being upset over that or enjoying the fact that he’s also ‘Pete’s boy’ for real now.

Dylan reaches down to do a handshake with Peter, who’s caught off guard with sticky rice residue left on his fingertips. Dylan grimaces at the texture and wipes it on his pants before doing a little eyebrow raise in Sam’s direction in lieu of a greeting.

“’Sup,” Ganj nods at the two of them, holding up a peace sign. In her other hand is a plateful of tacos with way too much sriracha on them. Out of all the Wayback Boys, Sam found her the most bearable, though that might just be because of gay solidarity.

Dylan plops down next to Peter and Ganj follows suit, “I didn’t know you guys did this shit too.”

“What, go outside?” Sam quips without thinking. It’s not the first time his quick mouth made a joke at the expense of his dignity, and it won’t be the last.

“He means getting high as fuck and going to the flea market with your bros,” Ganj clarifies, offering the tacos to Dylan, who picks up two at once and takes a savage bite of them both.

“Oh, well uh, we’re not high,” Peter corrects them, “I’m still very much asthmatic.”

Sam puts his hand on Peter’s thigh, “And we’re here on a date, not as bros.”

“Oh, shiiiiiiiit. My bad,” Dylan says before swallowing the food in his mouth, though he makes no move to say goodbye and leave them alone. “You guys should still try it though. Smoke a couple bowls and come here all hungry and shit. Buy hella greasy food and share it with your friends. It’s fucking _awesome_.”

Ganj nods, “It’s like, the _best_ cure for munchies. We’ve cut our Doritos intake in half.”

“Well that’s good,” Peter replies, sipping some lemonade through his straw.

“I mean, like, we still eat them almost every time we get high,” Dylan admits, licking off a bit of sour cream off his thumb, “Which is on the daily but…”

Sam face scrunches, “Oh, that’s like, super fucking unhealthy.”

“Nah man, Spence came up with a fix,” Dylan shakes his head, leaning in conspiratorially, “You gotta scrape off some of the nacho cheese dust, then it’s all good.”

Peter sharply inhales, his face full of horror at the knowledge of their unhealthy eating habits. He turns his head to Sam, silently asking if he should even bother saying anything to correct Dylan. Sam shakes his head. Definitely not worth it.

An awkward silence hangs over the four of them until Peter finally breaks out of his shock and asks Ganj how her classes at the community college are going.

“Oh, it’s pretty dope. My math teacher doesn’t give a fuck so that class is super easy. I have to memorize hella shit for pysch, but that shit’s actually pretty interesting.”

Peter lights up at that, unsurprisingly, and the two of them launch into a discussion. He’s always been interested in people, what motivates them, who they are at their core. That’s why he got so invested in Dylan’s case, even when it backfired on him, and how he was able to make such an emotional impact on the people who watched _American Vandal_. It’s a quality Sam admires; how passionate Peter is about people, how much he believes in them. His intrinsic ability to understand others might’ve scared Sam a bit if they didn’t already _get_ each other so easily.

“But yeah, like, it’s cool and all, but that Freud guy is a lil bitch,” Ganj says sagely.

Dylan nods in agreement, “Huuuuuuge lil bitch.”

“I didn’t know you were familiar with Freud,” Peter says, impressed. God, how did he love this nerd?

“Well, like, I don’t really know much, but any guy who thinks I wanna fuck my mom is a lil bitch. I’d never, even if my mom was like… _suuuper_ hot.”

Gange smirks, “I dunno Dyl, I think your mom is hot.”

“Holy shit, I say the same thing about Pete’s mom!” Sam grins, reaching over the other two guys to fist bump Ganj. Dylan and Peter glare at them, but it just makes them laugh harder.

“I thought you were done calling my mom hot since we’re, you know, _dating each other_.”

 “Listen, I’m just appreciating how lovely your mother is,” Sam replies, unable to keep in his snickers as he says it.

 Peter pushes his shoulder lightly, “I’m warning you, if you’re dating me just to get with my mom, we’re through.”

“That may have been my intention in middle school,” Sam jokes, “But not now.”

His eyes linger on Peter as he attempts to swallow the feelings he’s _really_ developed for Peter. How serious he is about them.

 “You know, you guys are the real deal,” Dylan says, breaking Sam and Peter from their little bubble. Sam’s only slightly ashamed he forgot they were there. “Like Mack and me, but like, gay.”

In Sam’s opinion, him and Peter were the furthest thing from Mackenzie and Dylan in just about every possible way. Not only were they both nerdy and inexperienced (and as Dylan pointed out, gay), Sam and Peter also weren’t in a tumultuous relationship constituting of four breakups, apology tattoos, and cheating. They weren’t perfect, but they were nowhere near being that dysfunctional.

“Bro, honestly, you need to stop talking about Mack and let yourself move on,” Ganj sighs. She seems exhausted, like she’s been hearing Dylan lament over Mackenzie for the past year. It’s not exactly a secret that Gange never liked Mackenzie. “You deserve better than that.”

Dylan frowns, sticking his hands in his hoodie, “I get that you guys hate her and shit, but Mack’s _it_ for me.”

“I mean, she cheated on you though,” Sam reminds him.

Peter continues to rub salt in the wound, “And kept evidence that could’ve exonerated you.”

Sam elbows him gently, because yeah, neither of them were being very sensitive, but Peter was coming from a place of betrayal over the case, not on behalf of Dylan’s feelings.

“Yeah, she didn’t do everything right, but neither did I, y’know?”

“I guess,” Peter shrugs, not fully convinced, “But then don’t you think it’s better that it ended? For both of you?”

Dylan scoffs, “Oh, yeah, it’s much better spending all my time doing community service and having to like, fucking jack off every night.”

“Dude, gross! Don’t say that shit!” Ganj exclaims as Peter chokes on his drink. Sam pats his back until he stops coughing, his own face scrunched up in disgust.

“And like, I know she’s having fun at Boulder or whatever. But her ‘boyfriend’,” Dylan puts in air quotes, voice dripping with disdain, “Is a total pussy. Like, he doesn’t draw dicks with sharpie or get tatted up for her.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, brows furrowing, “I mean, did they break up, or get in a fight?”

“No,” Dylan admits, “But I’m sure they will. When she comes home for the summer and sees how I’ve changed, we’re gonna get back together. And then get drunk off those _mojitos_ they sell here. We could double date.”

He pronounces the ‘j’, not that Sam is very surprised. Dylan _did_ spend more time drawing dicks in Spanish than paying attention.

And even though he doesn’t really like Dylan all that much, at least not to the degree that Peter does, he feels bad for the guy. He’s lost a lot since last year, life derailed because people think they know the type of person Dylan is. Sure, Dylan Maxwell does idiotic shit and can be infuriatingly immature, but he also cares about his friends. He’s loyal and loves those close to him. And he’s _so_ sure that he loves Mackenzie, that they’re meant to be. But they aren’t.

It’s sad that someone’s unwavering certainty of their love can be mistaken. That the other person might not reciprocate, or that they did at one point, but the feeling faded. That even if they share that feeling of love, both could be wrong, because in the end, they shouldn’t be together.

The possibility that this could be that case for him and Peter is not lost on Sam. Honestly, it’s scary, but it doesn’t change the way he feels. He’s sure he’s right about them, that he really is in love. It’s just… Does Peter feel that strongly, if at all? He knows how Peter overthinks everything, how he dislikes rash decisions.

He can tell Peter’s overthinking _right now_ , absently chewing on his straw as he lets Dylan’s words sink in, even though Dylan’s already moved on to arguing with Ganj about _mojitos_ versus _margaritas_. And he knows Peter’s probably freaking out about Dylan’s comparison, especially since he witnessed their messy break up. Sam wants to say something to reassure him, but not in front of Dylan and Gange. Besides, he’s not sure which way the conversation will go. Even though he knows he loves Peter, but he’s not quite sure how to say it yet. He’d be unprepared.

Microphone feedback rips Sam out of his thoughts, and he looks up to the stage to see the band had changed, this one with a familiar front man.

“Holy shit, is that _Kraz_?”

The other three whip their heads around to look at the stage, where Kraz, is in fact, standing at the microphone. He’s wearing an outfit that is obviously inspired by Jason Mraz, with a brown fedora and light blue button up.

“Oside! You are looking _very_ good tonight,” Kraz greets the crowd as he tunes his guitar incorrectly, “We are The Reefer Renaissance, let’s do this!”

The song is clearly some sort of John Mayer rip off, somehow even more overtly sexual. His whole look doesn’t really fit with the sound, and Sam wonders if he knows Jason Mraz and John Mayer aren’t the same person. Kraz’s voice is gravelly, and not in a hot way, instead it makes Sam’s own throat sore. The drummer is slightly offbeat, and the bass player doesn’t look like he wants to be there.

 “This is _actually_ the best day of my life,” Sam declares, pulling out his phone to film the glorious monstrosity unfolding before his eyes.

 Beside him, Peter is trying to hold in his snickers by covering his mouth, his hazel eyes crinkling underneath his glasses.

Dylan nods along to the music, “Yo, honestly I kinda fucks with the vision.”

“Dude, _what_?” Ganj laughs, shaking her head, “This shit is whack.”

“I mean, it’s not what I’d usually play in my car or anything, but I dunno… You can _feel_ his passion.”

Kraz croons into the microphone, so close that he looks like he’s making out with it, “ _Baby, you’re a choco-late covered strawberry, and I’m ready to eat you up under our picnic blanket.”_

“Do they just let anyone sing here?” Peter raises an eyebrow.

Ganj’s eyes light up, “Wait. Dyl. We should totally see if we can get the Wayback Boys to play.”

“What? We don’t sing.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Ganj grins mischievously, “We can go up there and prank everyone and upload that shit to YouTube.”

Dylan leans back, as if the idea is so powerful, so revolutionary, that it punched him in the face. “Dude, _hell yeah_! You’re a genius.” Sam’s not sure how they think they’ll be allowed to even get onstage, given that it’s public knowledge the Wayback Boys are pranksters at this point. Dylan turns to Peter and Sam, “Yo, sorry, but we gotta go and plan this shit. Nice seeing you though. We need to sesh sometime soon.”

Peter nods even though he’s clearly confused about what’s going on, and Dylan claps his hand on Peter’s back before they leave. Sam distractedly waves goodbye as he tries to film Kraz getting on his knees and belting out a flat note.

Peter’s head gets in frame as he turns to Sam, “Can we please leave? I can’t hear another second of this.”

Sam instinctively focuses the camera on Peter, capturing his pout. The magenta and blue lights swim behind Peter’s body, painting him in a beautiful neon glow. Apparently, Sam hasn’t shaken his habit of filming Peter looking nice instead of capturing what mattered—though he’d argue Peter was pretty important.

“You know you’re trying to rob me of the greatest moment of my entire existence, right?” Sam says, watching Peter roll his eyes through the screen. “Fine, fine. But let’s go to the pier instead of going home. It’s just down the street.”

Peter thinks before nodding in agreement, knowing that’s better than listening to Kraz sing about taking acid and making love to a woman on the beach.

They walk down to the pier in silence, and it’s not necessarily the comfortable one either. Sam holds his cardigan closer to his body as they reach the pier, the strong ocean winds raising goosebumps on his skin.

They stop about halfway down, standing arm-to-arm against the railing. The lights along the pier reflect on the choppy water, and Sam is hit with the smell of salt water and the lavender fabric softener Mrs. Maldonado uses. It’s a hard to see the stars because of all the light pollution, but they still look mesmerizing as they twinkle across the night sky.

Beside him, Peter is leaning against the railway, resting his head on one of his hands. He’s clearly distracted, eyes trained on nothing as he chews lightly on his bottom lip. And it’s not his ‘daydreaming about giving his acceptance speech at the Oscars’ face, it’s his ‘trying to solve a case’ face. The face he often wore last year, parsing through videos and testimonies, trying to decide if he could trust certain people or not. And yeah, Peter is always overly logical, but it’s worrying Sam. No one should be thinking that hard about something Dylan Maxwell said.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, wrapping his arm around Peter’s waist and bringing him closer. “You good?”

Peter blinks himself out of his reverie, giving Sam a gentle smile, “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.” He looks back out on the water, pushing his glasses back up on his nose, “It’s really beautiful out tonight.”

Sam studies Peter, how the moonlight hits his cheekbones and shines off his eyes. The slight curl to his messy hair, or how his sideburns are fluffy and unkempt, but Sam likes it. How the tip of his nose is a little red from the chill, and the way Peter licks his lips to keep them from going dry against the wind.

Sam doesn’t bother tearing his gaze away from Peter. “Yeah, it is.”

 

That Saturday, Sam starts to work on his confession plan. He’s been thinking about it since he stayed at Peter’s that stormy night, but it’s mostly been ideas swimming around his head and keeping him up, nothing set in stone. Or at least a Google Doc.

He had wanted to plan it all out on a corkboard, index cards and strings in all their glory, since he found it easier to think things out when he could work with it physically—but that would be tempting fate. Even if he hid his mini corkboard amongst the pile of dirty laundry on his closet floor, Peter would somehow find it. Sam wasn’t stupid enough to leave such precious material around to be found.

Sam almost calls the doc ‘love confession’, but then remembers Peter is always on his laptop and vice versa, so he decides to name it something Peter would never click: ‘HSM 4 Reunion Spec Script’. He puts a few pictures of the cast (a.k.a Troyella and Chyan blingee edits) on the first page so that Peter won’t see any of the plans on the preview page. Foolproof.

Honestly, with all this thinking ahead, Sam could probably pull off the next vandal crime. Not that he would.

First, he decides to get out all the ideas he’s been ruminating on in the form of a bullet list.

  * Doves in my jacket to release after I tell him



That’s it. That’s all Sam can remember from brainstorming for the past month. Fuck.

The cursor blinks black at Sam mockingly, taunting him with all the ideas that are now out of his reach. He spins around in his desk chair a couple times, as if getting dizzy will move his brain around enough for them to come back. They don’t. But, while Sam is a huge advocate for setting the scene and planning out the moment, he knows that what he _says_ to Peter is more important.

_Peter,_

That feels too formal. Sam sighs and hits backspace, thinking for a moment.

_Babe,_

Feels a bit too general.

_Darling, snookums, light of my life,_

No, that’s way too much.

_Pete,_

That’ll work. He can always go with whatever he’s feeling in the moment anyways.

_Pete, we’ve known each other since fifth grade. I remember my mom picking me up the day we met, and how I told her I met my best friend. I was so sure we were important to each other, though I didn’t know just how yet. Honestly, it’s kinda fucking weird how we just **get** each other, how well we work together. How we make each other better. You make me laugh, and smile, sometimes we fight, and I cry, but it doesn’t matter because you make me feel      NGrgergknelrgnlNRGLNRGLRNelgrknergnlLKRGNLRNKGNRKLGNLKrlegkn !?!? ?!??_

Sam sighs, burying his head in his hands. How the hell is he supposed to put the way Peter makes him feel into words? Other than ‘in love’ of course, but this is supposed to be some grand, poetic declaration. Without build up or passion, monologues fall flat. Peter’s own skill with writing them is extra intimidating. His inspired Sam, so much so that he finally asked Peter out. It’s a tough act to follow.

He cracks his knuckles before deleting the keysmash, hoping that some inspiration will strike him if he just sits and stares at the screen. That’s how Shakespeare found the muse for his sonnets, right?

_You make me feel happy._

That’s too underwhelming.

_You make me feel like I just placed first on Rainbow Road._

Could he _be_ more of a nerd?

Why couldn’t his hopeless romantic brain work when he needed it to? Sam sighs, looking around his desk, hoping for something to jump out at him—unfortunately it’s as cluttered as his brain. There’s some stray post its and stolen pens, leftover spoons he used to stir tea, and a picture of him and his sisters. There’s a polaroid of him and Peter cuddling on his couch, which Gabi took on her yellow Fujifilm camera when she visited over winter break. Next to it is the bag of caramel candies Peter for bought him at the market, just before they left. He’d already eaten like, five, and two of those were while Peter drove him home, but he’s feeling defeated, so he has another. Peter wasn’t as obsessed when he tried one, but Sam gets why it’s such a hit, enjoying how the sweet caramel melts nicely in his mouth.

He wishes he could just ask Peter for help. Maybe he could, in some roundabout way, but it would probably make Peter suspicious. Sam is not very good at subtlety, which is why he’s having trouble being poetic in the first place. Peter could strike the perfect balance, help him craft the perfect profession.

The sound of his phone vibrating on the wooden desk shakes Sam out of his thoughts, and when he sees that Peter (a.k.a. pete (heart emoji) (film roll emoji)) is trying to FaceTime him, he almost chokes on the caramel candy. Can his boyfriend read minds? Is he going to physically manifest in his room and demand him to confess?

Sam jumps onto his bed, trying to fix his hair before he clicks accept, getting nestled into the pillows.

Peter’s face appears on the screen, but it’s not the face of neutrality that Sam’s expecting. His eyes are bleary with tears, and lips downturned into a frown. Sam feels a tug at his heart, but not how it feels when Peter gives him that special smile or pulls him in for a kiss. No, this kind hurts.

“Pete?” Sam says finally, “Pete, babe, what’s wrong?”

The other boy shakes his head, wiping a tear under his glasses and sniffling, “Nothing. Everything’s fine. I don’t even know why I called.”

“Wait--”

But Peter’s already hung up.

Bull _shit_ he’s ‘fine’. Sam tries to FaceTime him back, but he doesn’t answer, so he sends a flurry of texts. He’s freaking out, because Peter is not someone who cries a lot. Maybe at the occasional movie, or during finals week because he’s so stressed, but it didn’t seem like one of those. Something bad happened.

Finally, Peter picks up on the fifth Facetime attempt, eyes still red and puffy.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Sam sighs in relief, “You had me worried there.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just… I felt like I had to talk to someone, and you were the first person I thought of, and all of the sudden I was calling you,” Peter apologizes, his voice rushed and shaking, like he’s fighting back another sob from falling out.

The pang in Sam’s chest grew more painful. “Don’t apologize. You know you can call whenever right?” Peter nods, “So what’s wrong?”

Peter looks away, chewing on his bottom lip. He’s fidgeting with the red string bracelet around his wrist, the one Sam got him for Valentine’s. Peter had made him promise not to buy him a super expensive gift or do anything too sappy. Which like, Sam finally has a Valentine, someone’s he’s been close with his for most of his life. How did Peter expect him _not_ to do something sappy? So, he found the closest compromise— he had some leftover red string from the case lying around anyways. It’s how they linked different pieces of evidence, theories, and people together. As long as they’re both wearing it, they’ll always be connected. Peter had admonished him later for breaking the sappy rule, after he had teared up a bit and brought him in for a kiss. Sam wished he could see those happy tears from Peter right now.

“I was going through the _Vandal_ e-mail, reading the cases people submitted and stuff. Nothing too interesting, by the way,” Peter adds, as if Sam cares more about their possible case pool than how Peter is feeling. Typical.  “And then I came across one that…” Peter stops, trying to find the right words.

Immediately Sam goes through every worst-case scenario. Another copycat vandal? Netflix going back on the deal? Some asshole tearing apart their work? Or even scarier, someone threatening to reveal information about Peter and Sam. Their houses, phone numbers, family… or the fact that there _is_ a PeterandSam. Their relationship and sexualities are not some deep secret, but they aren’t _out_ , at least not to the general public/ _American Vandal_ audience.

He knows if he voices any of these, it could send Peter spiraling further. Instead he settles for saying, “If it’s some shithead, you should just delete the e-mail.”

“I got an e-mail from my dad.”

Okay, not what Sam was expecting. (Still a shithead though, in his opinion).

“Wait, he tried to contact you through the _Vandal_ e-mail?” Sam frowns. He has Peter’s number, even though he only uses it once a year. Why would he send something to their business account?

Peter nods, “Yeah.”

He stays silent for a moment, and Sam realizes he’s not going to elaborate.

“…About?”

“I guess he wanted to reach out,” Peter shrugs, trying to seem like he doesn’t care, “Said I should come up to L.A. for spring break or something.”

Sam’s face scrunches up, “That’s weird. But… good weird or bad weird?”

“I dunno. I can’t tell if he’s being real with me or not. Why now? Because I’m ‘famous’ or something? Am I finally good enough for him to care about?” Peter’s voice breaks.

“No. I mean, maybe, but fuck him if that’s the way he thinks about his son,” Sam shakes his head passionately, “You’ve always been _more_ than enough. With or without the doc. I’m sorry that he can’t see that for himself.”

Peter gives him a weak smile before rubbing his runny nose on the sleeve of his sweater. “For years I’ve just tried to forget about him. That what he did, or whatever he’s doing with his life doesn’t matter. But… I can’t help but be curious.”

Sam nods, not at all surprised that Peter Maldonado is curious is about something.

“Maybe this could answer my questions. About why everything happened, or what could’ve been.”

“True, but maybe you won’t like the answers,” Sam points out.

Peter huffs, running a hand through his hair. “What do you think I should do?”

Immediately, he wants to tell Peter to delete the e-mail. Mark it as spam and block his dad. Not to open himself up for disappointment. The way Peter spoke of him the night of the big storm, Sam wasn’t very impressed, and it seemed to unsettle Peter. But then again, what does he know? Sam’s family is big, and they’re all pretty invested in his life—sometimes too much. (His Nana tried to discreetly leave a pamphlet about safe sex in his jacket last time he visited. It was mortifying). Point is, it’s unfamiliar territory for Sam. Maybe it’s selfish that he doesn’t want Peter to get hurt at the expense of some closure.

Besides, Sam is so fucking indecisive, even about the littlest things. Sometimes it frustrates the hell out of Peter—because when he sets his mind to something, Peter follows through. It should be Peter’s decision, but right now, Sam doesn’t think that Peter should have to decide. Especially because when his head isn’t clear, Peter is prone to dumbass decisions.

So, Sam proposes he does something else. “I think you should logout of the _Vandal_ e-mail and come over. I mean, if you want.” Peter looks like he’s going to argue, but Sam continues, “We don’t even have to talk about it or do anything at all if you don’t want. I’m perfectly fine sitting at opposite sides of the room and just staring at each other.”

That makes Peter laugh, at least just a bit. Sam can’t help but feel relieved.  

“I don’t wanna bother you though. Seriously, I’ll be okay. I feel better now that I told you.”

“Pete, I _invited_ you over. You could never bother me. Well, not about shit like _this_ , it’s slightly bothersome when you rant about indie films for hours but…” Sam laughs slightly at his own teasing before taking in the uncertainty on Peter’s face. “C’mon, Pete. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

Peter thinks it over for a moment, and Sam can tell he’s studying his face for any hint of a lie. Searching for a sign that Sam really _is_ annoyed. The sharp stab of sadness digs deeper into his chest. He wishes Peter would know that he truly cares about him. That trying to make him feel better is not some chore or burden. Apparently, from the few stories Sam’s heard, that’s how Peter’s dad treated it.

 “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

After they say goodbye and hang up, Sam lets himself take a moment to collect himself before preparing for Peter to arrive.

First order of business is closing the google doc full of his (failed) love confession plans, obviously. There’s no way he’s going to let Peter see it, not that he made that much headway.

Next, he attempts to clean up his room some. Other than his untidy desk, there’s stray socks and shirts strewn across his floor, and his bed is unmade. There’s some other shit he could clean up, but Peter’s already aware of Sam’s messiness, so it doesn’t seem as big of a deal.

Once he’s thrown his spoon collection in the kitchen sink to be washed, he grabs some Girl Scout Cookies in the hopes the sugar helps comfort Peter some. (Samoas for himself of course and Thin Mints from the freezer for Peter, though he knows they’ll be sharing anyways).

His mattress groans in protest once he returns and jumps back onto it, his head falling nicely on the excessive number of pillows. There’re still a few minutes until Peter should be arriving, but Sam’s too anxious for him to arrive to do anything else but aimlessly play some Temple Run, but even then, he keeps getting caught by the demon monkey thing.

Letting out a deep sigh, Sam locks his phone and sets in down on his nightstand. He can’t stop thinking about how he’s going to help Peter. If he even can. This isn’t like when they watch a fun movie or make out after a shitty day at school. He doesn’t think Peter will want to do either of those things, nor does Sam, not after seeing Peter so emotionally vulnerable.  

Really, it depends what mood Peter will be in. Usually, when it’s something serious like this, there’s two options.

The first is that Peter will be angry, or rather, impassioned. Ranting and pacing around the room, essentially having an argument with himself. It’s the one that Sam’s most familiar with, especially while working on _American Vandal_. When Peter got like that, it was hard to get a word in, but Sam had become something of an expert, knowing just when to interrupt or how to bring him down from entering a never-ending rabbit hole of theories and pent up grudges.

Option two, Sam’s not so much of an expert with. Peter becomes despondent, lost in his own thoughts. As if whatever’s bothering him is too hard for Peter to be vulnerable about. He’s only seen it a few times, because usually, Peter just distracts himself if he feels that way, throwing himself into some project or shutting him out until he works through it. 

There’s a gentle knock at his door, and Sam rolls off his mattress to open it, which his cat uses as an opportunity to run inside.

Peter looks slightly better than he did on FaceTime, a little more collected, though his eyes are still red and puffy, and he’s wearing a hoodie and sweats. (Though so is Sam, so he can’t really judge).

“Hey,” Peter greets, coming in and closing the door behind him.

Sam pulls him in for a hug, and immediately feels Peter sag under his touch, melting into the comfort of his arms. He buries his head into to crook of Sam’s neck, and Sam holds him tighter, putting his hand on the back of his head and massaging his scalp.

Peter’s sniffles break through the silence in the room, and the noise is so heartbreaking that Sam feels his own eyes well up, though he doesn’t let himself cry. Instead he presses his lips to Peter’s head, to which Peter responds with a hum and a feather light kiss on Sam’s neck. They stand there, embracing and swaying slightly until Peter is ready to let go.

“I, uh,” Sam clears his throat once they pull apart, pointing to his desk, “I have some cookies. You’re favorite kind.”

“Thanks,” Peter replies, though he makes his way to Sam’s bed and sits. Sassy, his cat, pads across the mattress and rubs her head against Peter’s hand. She’s probably just doing it for treats, but Peter smiles softly anyways.

Sam cautiously sits down beside him, stretching out his legs. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Peter stops scratching behind Sassy’s ear. He shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, “Not really.”

Option number two.

“Anything you wanna do?”

“I dunno,” Peter shrugs.

Sam nods, “That’s fine. I’ve got all the time in the world to do nothing.”

Peter lets out a breath of laughter and shakes his head before resting it on Sam’s shoulder. Sam reaches out and threads their fingers together, running his thumb along Peter’s index to calm him down. To remind that he’s here.

They sit in silence for a while, only hearing cars passing by and Sassy purring as she kneads into Peter’s thigh before falling asleep between them.

“Thank you for understanding,” Peter says eventually, squeezing his hand lightly.

“Of course, Pete. Seriously you know I—” Fuck. _Don’t say I love you. Don’t say I love you._ “I care about you okay?”

“…Okay.”

Sam takes a deep breath, wanting to say more, needing Peter to understand. “And you know whatever happens with him… You’ll always have me to be around for you. To be your family.”

Peter moves his head from Sam’s shoulder, looking at him with an emotion Sam can’t quite place before nodding.

He scoots a little closer to Sam, “I’m glad I ended up calling you tonight.”


End file.
